


celestial doctors and their penchants for cyborg ninjas

by aeicx



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, 30 Days of Gency, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8842339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeicx/pseuds/aeicx
Summary: "What is a...'Florence Nightingale effect'?" he says, peering closer at Mercy's monitor.She punches the 'off' switch on her screen immediately - the force nearly pierces through the frame of the device - ignoring the overly warm flush in her cheeks as she gives Genji a tight, wavering smile. "Nothing you need to know."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This work is a collection of what will eventually gather as 30 Genji/Mercy one-shots, written based off of each prompt in the 30 Day Drabble Challenge.
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading them!

A train wreck.

That’s it. That’s the term.

Mercy’s only ever felt this disorganized on certain recognizable intervals throughout her life, and all during periods of furious operations consisting of patients seeking shelter in the heat of battle.

She never would have thought herself to have wished for the throbbing pain in her temples to be induced by anything  _but_  what her colleagues like to call “a rare moment of peace and quiet and oh, do we treasure it in the luxury of our lack of worries do we treasure it do we ever, let’s just rub it in your face, Mercy, let’s see how long you last before you crack.” The last thing she needs right now is enough silence to leave her alone with her own thoughts—though the time she gets for a shower is nice, considering the smell of vomit that’s likely clinging to her hair by now.

“…Angie?”

Mercy blinks, quickly familiarizing herself with her surroundings as she stirs back to reality—and back to Lena’s face, which peers down at her within such close proximity that Mercy could probably count every freckle on her face, if they were to both sit like this for the rest of lunch.

“She’s not dead!”

As soon as Lena retreats back into her seat after her cheering, Mei tilts her head with an audible trace of concern in her voice. “Are you alright, Doctor Ziegler? You look very pale.”

“Oh, yes,” Mercy says, waving off the notion. Pale? Her cheeks feel uncomfortably hot. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

What a day. First she’s bumping into desks, then she’s forgetting her keys, bringing her drink up to her ear with one hand and holding the phone up to her mouth in the other, accidentally bringing confidential patient files outside her room and leaving them out in the open on the coffee table (Hana had gotten a good laugh out of that one, assessing the situation with every ounce of unbridled joy whilst flipping through the papers to identify the folder labelled “76”…)

“Where ya going?” Lena quips, looking up as Mercy rises from her seat. Five have taken their leave from lunch already, including Hanzo, Winston, Lucio, Satya, and…

Mercy narrows her eyes.

“Restroom,” she says. She fights the urge to wince at the strained, wavering monotone of her own voice.

“Again?” Hana asks, snorting. “Looks like mama Mercy’s got the shits!”

She immediately shrinks under Mercy’s glare, hastily neutralizing the jest with a small “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”

* * *

 _Contrary to popular belief,_ she thinks, squinting at herself in the mirror,  _losing your appetite doesn’t stop you from throwing up._

Mercy absentmindedly stares down, circling the flat expanse of her stomach with her right hand while clutching the sink for support with the other.

_You’ll dry-heave until you get sick, your body will begin to realize what the problem is, and then it’ll resort to throwing out whatever else it can find in your stomach, including—_

“Angela.”

A palm lays flat against her back.

Her shoulders, if possible, seem to simply tense all the more upon hearing him. She forgets to straighten her back and keeps herself turned away, almost shrinking into herself as she maintains her figure. Dreading the familiar echo of his voice, dreading the way his fingers feel against the flesh of her neck.

“Are you alright?”

Mercy refuses to look at him.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a little sick. I might’ve had something spoiled rotten.”

Silence.

She counts to five before she speaks to the sink once more. “I think it might get a little unpleasant in here, would you mind stepping out for me? I’d like some priv—“

“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?”

What?

Mercy whips around, only now taking in the sight of glowing green and plates of metal; those parts which define him, which had once repulsed him. Her attempts to console him upon initially crafting the newer parts of his body had fallen upon deaf ears. Comparing him now to the man once full of grief, of shame—sometimes, it seems as though they are two completely different people.

The old Genji, for one, would have never referred to her as anything other than “Doctor Ziegler”.

She is suddenly heedless to the clicks of her boots against the bathroom flooring as she retraces her steps—backing away from the sound of a voice brimming with what she could have pinned as…sorrow, almost. Disappointment? No.

What is it?

As if he can read her mind, Genji slowly narrows the gap between their bodies, taking a step forward and touching her cheek— _no,_ she tells herself desperately, sucking in a sharp breath; the action is much too casual, far too instinctive, too close for comfort—

“I am not angry, Angela,” Genji says softly. “I would just like to know why.” His voice is a soft lull, coaxing her with the threat of a type of embrace unlike the ones shared in the heat of their frenzied escapades, tucked away in silent corridors or atop her desk in her office. Mercy wonders vaguely if he can hear her heartbeat thudding wildly in her chest. She’d be lying if she said this was merely the first time she’d thought it.

“I,” she says, swallowing. “I didn’t…I was going to, ah. Take care of it.”

How did he know?

She avoids his gaze now. Not once had they even entertained the notion of there being any sort of consequence to their actions, besides the obvious risk of disrupting the “no-work-relationships” rule. While Jack had demonstrated his authority above the matter with a firm foot, Mercy had forgone her professionality with every tug of Genji’s arm, every kiss they shared, and every muffled moan exchanged in her room throughout the long hours of the night.

Besides—it was never a relationship, not really. They were—and have always been—associates. With benefits. There are no romantic inclinations held on either part, none whatsoever.

None.

_Nichts._

And yet…the nagging voice at the back of her mind is always there, always poking, always prodding. And she hates it. She hates the way it makes her linger a second too long before she walks out the door after one of their private encounters, the way it makes Jesse complain when she neglects his wounds in favor of fussing over Genji’s injuries after battle for far too long. The way her chest aches when she hears him laugh alongside Lucio in the midst of battle, because it’s a loud, mirthful noise that she wants to wind about in her hand and keep close to her heart, without fear of losing what little she has left in this world to treasure. The way she’s come to dwell on the details of Genji’s hands when they wrap tight around her waist at night, because she just can’t help comparing them to the way his fingers feel when they brush against hers as they walk past each other during the day. Because she’s not ready to admit that every instance in which he touches her, she sees that neither accidental grazes nor firm grasps are all that different, really—because, no matter what, his touch is nothing if not gentle, and she can never quite forget the tender way in which his fingers stroke her cheek after he thinks she has fallen sound asleep.

Over the course of their time spent together, watching his mask, searching for a sign of anger, of resentment, disappointment,  _anything_ —has become a sort of one-sided game. In these moments of silence, Genji stands quite still, save for the near-imperceptible rise and fall of his shoulders that fall in line with the steady pace of his breathing. He gives way to no physical evidence of any sort of sentiment, and  _this_  is precisely what Mercy begrudgingly accredits to be the cause of her stress in the most recent months to come.

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” Genji murmurs, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “I did not—believe that it was even possible,” he says, as though he’s still struggling to grasp the mere concept of it, “given by my current state of being. Of course, certain parts of my body had remained intact after the incident with Hanzo…but even after restoring my state of mind after your operation, I had resolved that a number of my bodily functions had been deemed futile.

“Whatever the case, Angela,” he says, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes, “I can say for certain that I am here to support you, and whichever decision you may choose to take.

“This is something that can be processed by yourself, I am sure. But that does not mean that that is how it has to be.”

She itches to press down on the panels installed into his mask. To pull it down and see his eyes, to watch him say the words without hiding behind the visor.  _How convenient,_ she thinks bitterly.

But she knows. If anyone’s hiding, it’s her.

“No,” Mercy gasps, shaking her head free from his touch. “No, I—no, I can’t. I can’t get you sucked into this mess. We’re not even—I mean, what  _are_  we?” She exhales sharply, forcefully laughing with a tremor to her voice that doesn’t go unnoticed. “We’re not even—we’re nothing more than friends, Genji. Just friends,” she says, voice shaking. “There is nothing more to it. You have no need to involve yourself. How did you even know?”

“I found the test after I had dropped by to collect my belongings,” Genji says shortly. “It was the only thing lying at the bottom of your trash bin, in your unusually orderly bathroom.” He chuckles lightly at that.

 _Verdammt._  Mercy groans inwardly. Why had she thrown out the pregnancy test the day after cleaning, out of all times? She should have asked Athena to burn it.

“And as for what we are,” Genji says—he takes Mercy’s hands in his own, soft to the touch—“I was under the impression that my feelings were not entirely one-sided.”

Mercy immediately widens her eyes, opening her mouth to speak before he interrupts her.

“If what you truly wish is for me to remain a mere acquaintance in your life, I believe I am capable of keeping my distance. It will not be easy, but if it’s what makes you happy, I will do it. However,” he says, advancing closer, “I do not believe that I can linger aside while you struggle like this. I would like you to rely on me; regardless of whether or not you treasure me in the same way that I do you.”

Mercy stares at him, unmoving even as he wraps his arms around her.

“I have always loved you, Angela,” he murmurs in her ear. He sounds so close, yet so far away. “No matter what happens, that will not change.”

She slowly blinks once, twice, nodding again and again until she feels a strangely hot wetness in her eyes slowly slide down her flushed cheeks. He holds her tighter, then, muscles tensing with each drop of her tears onto his shoulders.

“Thank you,” she chokes. “Genji.” She feels him nod in response against her head, stroking her hair and radiating warmth.

She doesn’t want to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will usually prioritize updating these drabble challenge series on tumblr, where you can follow me/shoot me any comments or questions! I'm happy to interact with any of my readers. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I truly appreciate the time you guys take to leave kudos, comments, or questions on my work. I hope you all have a wonderful day!
> 
> Find me at: http://aeicx.tumblr.com/


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